We see more of Ulan-Bator...
A monument, high on a hill across the river (the ‘new’ part of town, where gers dot empty spaces between half-built high-rise apartment buildings). A mosaic runs around the circumference, documenting the relationship between Mongolia and Russia.
The main square, where a Saturday afternoon crowd rides rented bicycles built for two (or three) and kids tool around in teeny cars.
Gandantegchenling monastery: Back in the day, Buddhism was brought to Mongolia from Tibet, in the form of entertainment, in exchange for being spared the wrath of the Mongol army. But when the communists first came to Mongolia, they destroyed most of the temples, so they aren’t so prevalent anymore.
We waded through a sea of pigeons, feeding on the grain sold by bent-over men and women with weather-beaten features. Prayer wheels spin.
Inside the main building, the monks were midway through their daily three-hour chanting session….
The interior is a riot of fading colors – red rafters, painted walls, tapestries hanging everywhere, rugs on the benches that lined the edges of the room – and sunlight slants through the skylights, illuminating the dust dancing in the air. The monks sit, 2 rows on either side of the center aisle, facing each other. In front of them sit a stack of pages, about 1 foot by three feet. No ordinary pages, they are black with golden script, and contain the holy readings being chanted out loud. Some monks are chanting, some are reading along silently, and at seemingly random intervals there is a jarring noise of crashing cymbals and the deep thrum of gongs. As the stacks are finished, the young monks rise from their seats, wrap it in its golden cloth, and slide it back into its place, causing us to slide this way and that as they reached over our heads into the cabinets. Buddhas in glass cases line the walls. On a series of altars surrounding the largest Buddha on the center altar, offerings and candles are scattered, including cakes with ornate frosting frozen into place. Men carry out long trays filled with food for the monks – a shoe-shaped bread basket, a bag of various food items, and a small mound of what looks like cake.
In the smaller of the two temple buildings, this scene was repeated on a smaller and less ornate scale. In the back stood a cluster of people, crowding around to observe the ritual of washing Buddha’s face as they were draped in lengths of multicolored cloths.
Into the incense-filled stupa, where a tremendously tall golden Buddha looks down and prayer wheels line both sides of the perimeter walkway, their near-constant spinning looked upon by thousands of small robed buddhas.
Night train out of Ulan-Bataar.
The city falls away, more gers in rolling hills. Rain swoops in shimmering curtains, distant mountains cut a line on the horizon. Headlights burn on slick pavement. The train curves around a bend, stretching out behind us trailing lighted windows.
Settlements with houses of stone and small stations breezed right through. To the west, between the shadow of the hills and bruise of the clouds, a line of illuminated sky, shining so clear and promising,… but so far out of reach. And in the center, a pulse of fuschia, marking the setting of the sun. Soon this, too, fades, and the hills succumb to the darkness as fog settles in the valleys.
Down the corridor, beds are being made, cup-of-noodles being consumed, cards being played, as we figure out how to exist in the small space. (Already we are engaged in a standoff with our attendant over the acceptable level of openness for our window).
We are about to leave Mongolia behind... but it's not so easy. We have a border crossing to tackle first....
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